The Golden Rain
by Hurricane-chan
Summary: The simple tale of a Breton, bent to find her life's meaning. The simple tale of an Altmer, trying to make himself a name. Martin S./OFC and OMC/OFC. Summary is fail-tacular.
1. The Rain Begins to Fall

Rain seemed to pour endlessly from the skies above Imperial City. Layers upon layers of clouds loomed over head, making every shadow of every street corner sink deeper into shadows. One's first impressions of such a grand city should be pleasing, if not somewhat intimidating, but such feelings were hard to conjure when cold droplets seeped into the veins themselves. A young Breton traversed the cobblestone pathways quietly, her lips pursed and blonde head hidden underneath a blue hood. Upon first glance, one would assume her just another passer-by, engrossed in whatever business need be. People left other people alone when there was work to be done. She looked up from time to time, hoping to see a familiar face, but everyone here was a stranger.' Strange faces with no names,' she thought. 'How will I survive here?'

After nearly a half-hour of searching for Luther Broad's Boarding house, she gave up and realized that whoever had told her it lay in the Market District was clearly lying. Stupid people, why couldn't they spare a straight answer? The Breton made her way over to the House eventually, but not without stopping to ask a few Legion guards where it might be. A few pointed her in the right direction; others looked her up and down, asking if she would rather be "shown around by an official" rather than find it herself. She left these. They weren't going to give her any answers, just lustful glances. When the sign of the Boarding House came into view, her countenance became one of determination rather than irritation. She had found a place to stay, convenient enough for her tastes. Soon she'd be on her way home, if only stopping this once. Once was enough to recharge, no need to waste gold and time that she did not have.

The door opened with an ominous creak, as if telling her that this wasn't such a great idea. She should wait, find somewhere else. But it was raining. Where else could she go? The room smelled of ale and cooked meat, not unpleasant but not suited to a traveler like her. The Breton sat down silently at the bar and called to the owner,

"Excuse me, sir," she mumbled, turning her green eyes upward, "Do you have a room available for rent?"

The man named Luther Broad smiled warmly and nodded. "Ten gold a night, girlie."

"Alright, then…" She handed him the gold and laid her hands in her lap gracefully. Admittedly, she was quite cold. Rain could be unforgiving.

"You okay, there? You look like an icicle. I have an extra robe if you need it."

She shook her head. "No thanks. I'm fine…Do you mind if I ask a question?"

"Sure."

The woman looked down at her folded hands. "How much do you know about Bravil? Is it nice there?"

Luther looked at her oddly. "Well, not much, truthfully…Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering…I need to deliver something to someone there."

The Imperial just shrugged. "I hear it's alright. Long ways away from here, though. You got a name, kid?"

The Breton smiled knowingly underneath her hood.

"Fioré. Fioré Laurence."

"Okay, then. Miss Laurence, your room is up the stairs and to the left. Have a good night, then, kid."

Fioré stood up from the chair, smoothing down the wet Mage's Robes. She nodded a good night and wandered up the stairs to the room.

As soon as the door was closed, she pulled a small, wrapped article from the side-pocket of the robe. She laid it down gently on the bed, careful not to disturb the wrapping. Once it was safe and secure on the mattress, she unfolded the wrapping, one corner at a time. Sitting in the center of the brown paper was a small necklace, gold, with a swirling blue crystal in the center. In all reality, it was a mere sapphire pendant. There was nothing special about it. It was not enchanted, it was not going to save Tamriel, and it was just decorative jewelry. To Fioré, it was the world. The last piece of her history she could still call hers. The home was gone, as were the Bretons she used to call family. She was the last, and this necklace was all that could tie her to her past, and she wasn't about to let it go unnoticed. Bravil was where it would be safe, and to Bravil she would travel. Granted, there were bound to be a few distractions along the way, but it was necessary to sleep every once in a while.

She slept, and woke in the morning quickly. After dressing and combing her wavy blonde hair into a half-hearted ponytail twist, she made a point to leave the Boarding House quickly. 'No more delays,' she thought. 'I will bring this home, and it will be safe. It will.' Today, the sky seemed clear. Cloudless, as if all the clouds in the realm had gathered together the day before and had suddenly departed without a dying breath. The sun shone enough to where the hood she wore was no longer necessary, so she shrugged it off and inhaled the air, relishing the new life this day had brought into her spirit. Maybe travel would be easier than she had expected. If only she had thought of how a life such as hers could change in an instant. If only the world was kinder. If only it had mercy.

A Khajiit stood on the corner of a building, watching the girl. A newcomer, and a Breton no less. Her face would not be expected around here. Perhaps it could be her. She would be the perfect scapegoat for the Thieves. He noticed a small, brown package leaning out of the pocket of her robes, as if beckoning to be stolen. If this was important, she certainly wasn't guarding it very well. Oh, pick-pocketing was such a grand sport. And so very easy when the subjects weren't very wary of their surroundings. Oh, such fun!

Sneaking to the best of his ability, the Khajiit stalked behind Fioré, not seen by the watchful eyes of the Legion. With one swift grab, the package was out of her pocket and replaced by a similar article containing a much more sinister item than the innocent sapphire pendant she held so dear. The Khajiit backed off, clutching the necklace in his paws, laughing inwardly at the plight that she would fall into if a Legion Guard happened to find the item. Sweet, sweet Skooma. Such a lovely item when placed in the wrong hands. 'Good luck, Breton girl,' he thought, flicking his tail. 'You'll need it.'

Fioré had never seen so many people in one place before. Imperials, Bretons, Altmers, Dunmers…..Everything and everyone seemed to be in this one city, bound and determined to set her off course. A few bumped into her, balance wavering at the impact. Mostly she just let it go, apologizing despite the fact that it was _they_ who ran into _her_, until she felt the contents of the pocket slip silently out of her pocket. It took a few steps before she noticed it was missing. When she did, her heart flipped completely in her chest. There it was, lying in the street like an apple core, waiting to be stepped on by uncaring feet. With all the speed she could muster (and all the dexterity, as avoiding people seemed impossible) she ran for the package. Before she could reach it, foreign hands lay on the wrapping. Imperial Legion hands.

"Oh, thank the Nine!" Fioré chimed, resting her hand over her throbbing heart. "I thought I'd lost it."

The Legion Guard seemed in no hurry to give up her item. He looked at it curiously, and peeled back an inch or so of the brown paper. Immediately, warning bells rang in her head. If another soul touched it, the meaning would cease to exist. It belonged to the Laurence's, and no matter how kind a soul may be, the allure of treasure is quite hard to resist.

"Excuse me, sir, I would like to have that back, please." She stretched out a hand for it, but was evaded by the Guard who gave her a suspicious glance.

"Just wait a minute, miss. I would like to know exactly what it is you're hiding from me."

Fioré's eyes flashed. "I would appreciate if you would hand that back to me, sir. I've nothing to hide, save for a family heirloom that I'd much rather have safe in my own hands than in someone else's. No offense sir, but it means quite a lot!"

The Legion Guard ignored her protests, ripping off the paper in one smooth motion. Instead of the calm sapphire she had expected, a gleaming bottle appeared, filled with who-knows-what. Instantly, terror filled her veins. The necklace was gone. It was _gone!_ The look on the Guard's face suggested that the loss of her jewelry would be the least of her problems.

"A _family heirloom? _Is that what you're calling it? Yeah, well, around here people call it Skooma, and possession of it is _blatantly_ illegal. I'm sure you would like to have it back, missy, but the only place it's going is to be confiscated, much like yourself!"

Fioré could not hide the complete and utter shock that crossed her gentle features. _SKOOMA? They're accusing me of possessing SKOOMA?_ They were, and the Guard proceeded to bring her arms around and clasp them in a hold, allowing no further movement.

"That isn't MINE! I've never even seen it before!" She gritted her teeth at the realization of just how pathetic her cry seemed.

"Sure, it's not. Tell it to the jailor, honey. Maybe he'll believe you!"

A bright day had suddenly turned dark, the shadow of a false accusation leaning over her head. It killed the Breton to know that somewhere, the necklace of her family was gone, in the hands of Nine knows who, being sold for Nine knows what. She felt sick to her stomach, and suddenly weak in the knees. She was being dragged off to jail for a crime she did not commit, and the only item that meant anything to her was in the hands of a dishonest thief. She began to feel faint, and when the door to her cell was opened, she fell limp. Her eyes went black, and the world outside knew nothing of her fate.

The jail itself was cold and unforgiving, but the light that would soon pass into her life was requisite for all the pain in the world. Soon, nothing would matter anymore but the world at her feet and protecting those in it. Soon, she would have the breath of life she so desired.


	2. Splash

**Hello! Thanks for reading this loverly brain child o' mine. Starting here, the chapters will switch back and forth between two characters, Fiore the Breton, and Andrisias the Altmer, until the story runs together. :D Enjoy! Reviews are appreciated. **

**Thanks so much, **

**HURRICANE-CHAN. :3**

* * *

Andrisias looked up at the Fighter's Guild building expectantly. So this was it. To join or not to join? That was the painful question. So, so painful.

Ordinarily, one would waltz right into the place, uninhibited and brave, willing to risk life and limb for the sake of a decent job. In fact, a few of those passed him, goofy smiles on their faces and weapons hung loosely at their sides. He shivered a few times, wondering what would befall him if he took that fateful step and entered the guild. The way he saw it, there were two drawbacks to joining the faction; One: He would be risking well, _everything_ to work for, what seemed like, minimal amounts of gratification. Two: He was an Altmer. A light-blonde, dark-eyed Altmer that had never seen a day of real battle in his rather young life.

This would be a very difficult day.

Biting his lip, Andrisias knew he had to make a decision. People walking through the doors looked at him curiously. To them, he was an idiot, just standing there, staring at the doors and blocking everyone's exit and entrance. To him, he was on the threshold of altering his life forever. Before now, he had spent most of his life at home in Skingrad, quietly training in the arcane arts and swordplay, always under the watchful eyes of his parents. '_Be careful, Andrisias,' _they'd say, _'watch how you swing the sword!' _His parents weren't here to observe and correct him anymore, and every mistake he made could be his last. With that thought in mind, he stretched out a shaky hand and pushed open the doors.

The Anvil Fighter's Guild looked almost exactly as he had imagined it. A practice dummy stood in the center, being abused by a tough-looking Nord woman armed with a war-hammer. Behind it, two Guild members in steel armor were sparring, one with a mace, the other a longsword. The clang of metal on metal rang throughout the lobby, leaving Andrisias' sensitive ears ringing. '_Of course,'_ he thought, _'They're fighting. I should've known.' _Realizing how snobby he sounded, the Altmer shook the thought from his head and gathered his courage, walking up to a smiling porter.

"Who do I speak to about joining the Guild?"

All activity stopped. The skirmishers stopped beating each other, and the Nord gave the dummy a reprieve. Their eyes all turned to Andrisias, completely shocked that an Altmer would inquire about joining. They all looked dumb-founded, mouths agape.

The porter, on the other hand, must've been used to things like this. He pointed to a staircase behind the skirmishers.

"Go up the stairs and to the office. Speak to Azzan. He'll find you a place."

"Thank you, kindly…" Andrisias glanced at everyone once more, gauging their responses. He could tell they didn't think he was serious, that his plan to join was some sort of joke. It wasn't. He was putting his life on the line here! Didn't these people realize that? Again, with the ungodly amount of snob dripping from his mind in a gloppy mess. These people put their lives on the line _every day_. What right did he have to call them out on questioning his motives? He didn't look like he belonged, so why should they assume so?

Andrisias climbed the stairs tenderly, trying to be as light-footed as possible. He didn't want to disturb anyone else, as his presence just seemed to cause curiosity. He wondered, why was it so unusual for an Altmer to want to fight for a living? I can fight. Mostly….

The door to the office was unlocked, luckily, and standing partly open. A Redguard sat at a desk in the room's corner, preoccupied. He was reading some sort of paper, The Black Horse Courier, most likely. He didn't look up when Andrisias entered the room.

"Sir?" the Altmer began, "I was told to speak to you about joining the Guild…"

"Hmm?" The Redguard finally averted his eyes to the speaker, looking professionally indifferent.

"I was told to speak to you about joining the guild. I would very much like to, you see…" Andrisias scratched his head nervously, letting a bit of regret creep into his thoughts. He didn't like being put on the spot…

Azzan stared at the Altmer questioningly, and spoke, "Okay, then. You start off as an Associate."

With that, he returned to his paper, not giving Andrisias a second glance. '_What do I do now?'_

"Um…sir?"

"What?"

Again, he scratched at the back of his head. "If there's any available, I'd like to start a contract…"

"Oh, of course. Good thing you're eager, y'know. Not many are these days…." The Redguard stood up and meandered over to a lectern and opened it, extracting a pad of parchment that was heavily written upon.

"Associate…associate…"he mumbled, scanning the parchment. "Aha! Here's one. There's a woman down the street with a rat problem. Her name is Arvena Thelas. You can start there."

'_A RAT problem? That's the best you have? I can do more than that!' _Once again, Andrisias had to squash the snob that was surfacing before it spewed out his mouth. Instead, he bowed politely to Azzan and turned on his heel, stepping out the door. Thank the Nine Azzan didn't see the look of displeasure on his face when he left.

The Altmer was greeted by the sun when he stepped outside, although he cared less to observe the sky. He was staring at the cobblestone streets intently, a semi-permanent scowl plastered on his features. '_Nine-damn, Fighter's Guild. They call getting rid of RATS a CONTRACT! More like slave labor than a solid job….Fetchers.' _

This was turning out to be a bad day after all.

As he trudged down the road towards Arvena's home, he wondered if the advancement he had heard of was really worth all of the effort it took to get there. If he was going to be performing menial tasks like this, wouldn't it be better to just move on and become an adventurer? At least he wouldn't be held under anyone's thumb. Then he was free! But at the same time, the Fighter's Guild could be his chance to finally make something of himself. Who knows? Maybe he could even be Guildmaster someday!

Andrisias laughed at the though. Him? An Altmer? The Guildmaster? HA! Now that was entertainment.

When he approached the home, it wasn't what he expected. The image he had in his mind of a place with a rat problem had been a bit exaggerated, with rats crawling about the walls and holes eaten in the door. Instead, the house was normal. Solidly built and steadfast, without a single rat clinging to the sides. Hmph. How odd.

Deciding it would be better to be friendly than irate, Andrisias adopted a charming smile instead. He knocked on the door pleasantly, but no one answered. For good measure, he tried a second time. Still no answer! Disturbing thoughts began to creep into the Associate's head. '_What if she's dead? Eaten alive by vicious, hungry rats! Oh, that would make everything sooooo much more difficult! I should go check, just to see….'_

He opened the door slowly, scanning the room for any signs of rat-movement. When there were none, he stepped inside, searching the lower floor for any trace of Arvena, eaten or not. She was not there, either. When he gave up on that search, he headed for the stairs near the entrance of the house, leading upwards into a second story.

After opening two doors, he finally found her. Luckily she was alive and healthy, he thought, until he spoke to her.

"Are you the one the Guild sent?" the Dunmer woman asked hurriedly.

"Yes, mi'lady. They told me to come assist you. Said you had a rat problem?"

"YES! I do! It's terrible! PLEASE save my rats!"

"No problem, I'll take care of—" '_Wait, did she say "save?" SAVE her rats? Is she insane?'_

Andrisias had to rephrase himself. "Wait, you want me to…save your rats?"

"Oh, of course! My POOOOOR babies! They're being EATEN by something! I haven't the heart to see by what. Could you check it out for me?"

He couldn't help but wonder why she put so much emphasis on some of her words, such as "poor" and "eaten." All he could to was nod, trying with every fiber of his being to not laugh in her face and walk away, almost not succeeding. Turning away, he made it down the staircase and to the basement door, where he broke into hysterics. Clearly, this woman had many more problems than her rats being eaten!

This day may not be so terrible after all….


	3. Drops

A/N: FINALLY! I got off my lazy arse and updated. There was no excuse for taking this long, so forgive me if you can. There may even be another update today! I really wanted to get past this annoying chapter, so I'm glad that it's over. Enjoy, review, ahhh, you know the drill. I hope you like it. :D

I don't own Oblivion or the voice talents of Patrick Stewart. I wish I did, but I don't. XD

* * *

It was dark. An ebony black shadow, uniform in nature, covering every corner of Fioré's consciousness. There were muffled voices through the blackness, reaching out like tendrils of a carnivorous plant, trying to pull her away. Or was it awake? It was far too dark to tell. A few words slipped by, making themselves known,

"How long has she been out?" someone asked nervously.

"Two days. No one quite understands why…" a deeper voice returned.

"Well, the jailor said she was in for Skooma possession. That might explain it…Heard those black-outs can last quite a long time, yeh?"

"Probably."

_Me. They're talking about me. Out? Out of where? Oh, of course…._

Light pulled at her senses as she awoke carefully, using one arm to support her against the wall. An array of images all came rushing back at once. The necklace, the guard, the _skooma,_ the jail….The jail. That's where she was now. Thin-yet-sturdy metal bars loomed in front of her face, and the stone brick walls felt simultaneously smaller. This was not good. She was in JAIL, for a crime she didn't commit. The Breton wondered who had done the deed in truth, but the headache she had received cut most rational thought.

The guards had wandered away, now just a jumble of hurried whispers and mutterings, nothing too exponential. Fioré took this moment to really survey her surroundings, cramped as they were…

Her only furniture was a small stool and table, beat up by years of wear-and-tear from prisoners much more volatile than herself, probably from being thrown around in a rage. A worn, filthy bedroll lay underneath her sitting body, the sheets and pillow appearing to have been there since the days of the Ayleids. Lovely. The solid walls were made of stone bricks, one on top of the other in an impenetrable fortress, bordered at the base by a cement floor. The bars she had seen earlier were in fact, a barred door, with a lock heavier than any other she had seen guarding the handle and exit.

Obviously, there was no going anywhere. She was trapped.

With a sigh of resignation, Fioré leaned her aching head against the cold stone wall. There didn't appear to be a way of escaping this misunderstanding, and Imperial Legion guards weren't known for believing in the nature of second chances. She fell into deep thought, images of a bright meadowland and a small farmhouse flitting before her eyes like butterflies in summer.

_I should've stayed. But there was nothing for me there. Is there anything for me here?_

She let the pictures come, forgetting her putrid surroundings in favor of a fantasy: her once-home in the southern section of High Rock. There was the scent of newly-opened roses growing from the bush near the wooden front door while somewhere in the distance, a bird sang accompanied by the quiet whispering of brook. People were laughing; No, her family. They were laughing. Young Cecil was chasing Sophie again, and Mother was telling them to stop running. Father was chuckling as he watched them. Fioré sat on the front lawn, smiling at her siblings. Sunlight warmed her pale cheeks, drenching her face in the golden rays of summer. She was about to call out to them when a sneering voice ripped open the scene…

"Pale skin, snotty expression…Look here, a Breton!"

Fioré's eyes snapped open. Across from her was a Dunmer male, apparently fascinated that his only other jail-mate had finally awoken. He was as shabby looking as the cell he was in, and Fioré instantly decide that it was best to ignore him. Whatever he had to say, it wasn't going to be nice, and she didn't feel like listening. It would only make a bad situation worse.

The Breton shook her head, choosing to examine the crude pottery in front of her on the wooden table. The clay had been chipped in a few places, leaving small craters in the surface that gave the otherwise smooth cup some interesting textures. There were little grooves as well, marks of the potter that had created them. Those went all around the cup, and even carried inside of it, which was noticeably empty, and appeared to have been so for quite some time. Feh. It was easy to assume that prisoners weren't fed well. As she spent time looking at the bisqueware, she could still hear the blasted Dunmer ranting at her. She heard "harlot" and "die," but none of it seemed important. He could talk his mouth off, for all she cared.

When the Dunmer was finished insulting her, Fioré heard more voices. Different voices. One was a woman, and there were three men with her. One of the men must've been quite aged, she figured. His voice was strong, but wavering. Overall, the tone was one of hurried anxiousness. Something had happened outside her little cell, she just wasn't sure what that something might have been.

"My job right now is to get you to safety!" the woman said, appearing in the doorframe. When she noticed Fioré hunched in the far corner of the cell, her eyes grew large with anger.

"What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is _supposed _to be off limits!"

One of the male guards came into view, stumbling over his words in the intimidating woman's presence. He muttered something about a mix-up, but the woman (who appeared to be an Imperial) just waved him off. She looked at Fioré once more, and threatened her, "Stand back, prisoner! We won't hesitate to kill you if you get in our way!"

Something in her voice made Fioré believe her.

Behind the Imperial woman, three people filed into the cell. Two male guards, and one elderly Imperial in stately robes who looked incredibly out of place in the filthy prison. He had worry etched in all of his wrinkles, all of them probably well-earned. He glanced at Fioré quickly, then turned to look at her completely, a sort of daze melting the anxiety from his features. His blue eyes stared straight into hers, and he moved to speak.

"You…" he said, stepping towards her, "I've seen you…"

The old man asked to see her more closely, and Fioré obliged. There was something unarguably important about him, and she felt that it would be in her best interest to pay him mind. The blue eyes glazed over a bit more.

"You are the one from my dreams…"

Here, the Breton's curiosity overwhelmed her.

"What's going on here?"

The elderly Imperial told her of the death of his sons at the hands of assassins, and that the cell she was in was in fact the entrance to a secret escape route that wound through the undercroft of the Imperial prison to the outside. He identified himself as Emperor Uriel Septim, ruler of Tamriel, and that Fioré was to be pardoned for whatever had landed her in jail, as it was "not what she was to be remembered for."

Not only had she been right about his importance, but it appeared that this man was giving her a chance to escape the dungeon that she had been wrongly placed in. He gave her a pat on the shoulder and turned to follow the intimidating woman down a hallway that had opened up from the wall. One of the male guards followed the Emperor, but the other stayed back to warn Fioré that she should just "stay out of their way." She was fine with that, and followed the fleeing party into the long darkness that lay before her.


End file.
